


The Hawk

by arcticgold



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Former Hydra Clint, Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Miscommunication, Nightmares, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Secret Identity, lying, shild didn't fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:03:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcticgold/pseuds/arcticgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Clint didn't actually spend his childhood in the circus, but instead worked alongside the Winter Soldier and Black Widow as an agent of Hydra? What if Clint successfully managed to hide his past from everyone--the team, Shield, Phil? What happens when Bucky meets the team for the first time and all these lies come crashing down on top of them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this is my first big WIP since I've gotten back into writing! Obviously I've switched around some of the facts in order to make this work but I'm pretty excited about where it's going so far. I plan on updating the tags as I write, and I'll be sure to mention any additions in the notes of the newest chapter, but I don't think there should be anything too trigery in here. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Bucky was tense. His whole body was ready for anything, feeling exposed and threatened by the unfamiliar surroundings. Captain America—Steve squeezed his shoulder, something that was meant to be comforting; a command to relax. Bucky was slowly regaining his memories, slowly recognizing the man from his past. Slowly was the key word here—it had been weeks before the face brought back anything more substantial than an uneasy feeling of déjà vu. But it had been three months now since he’d fought his forgotten friend on the bridge, and some collection of high-ups seemed to think it would be beneficial for Bucky to meet the rest of Steve’s team. Walking down the hallway towards the room that held the team felt like the all too familiar trek to the chair, and he had to keep reminding himself that it wasn’t. These people were allies; friends of Bucky’s only friend left in this century, though apparently, not the only familiar face he was going to encounter at SHIELD.

Both Steve and multiple doctors had alerted him of the Black Widow’s presence, preparing him to confront her in an attempt to prevent a flashback that might trigger the Soldier to come out. They were still uncertain that Bucky was back for good, and if he were being honest with himself, he was too. But it had been months since his last outburst so, progress and such. Seeing Natalia’s—Natahsa’s, she went by Natasha now—face though, that brought back some of the clearest memories he had of his time as the Winter Soldier. And as those were just pictures, he imagined seeing the woman in person would be even more of a shock.

Steve stopped just outside the door, turning to look Bucky head on. “You ready for this, Buck?” he asked.

Bucky just nodded tersely, clenching his jaw too hard to work out an answer. The look in Steve’s eyes told him that the man could see just how uncomfortable he was, but nothing more was said as Steve opened the door and led the way in.

The group on the other side of the door all turned to face them, and Bucky immediately felt a hundred times more exposed than he had a moment ago. He flexed his hand, the metal one, reminding himself that he wasn’t as unarmed and bare as he felt. He always had the arm. After taking another deep breath, Bucky began cataloguing each face one by one.

Stark, furthest on the left, was first. _Iron Man._ His brain supplied. _Billionaire. Terrorist target. Relatively defenseless without his suit of armor._ Bucky nodded at the man, receiving an identical, though far more relaxed, response from him. It seemed the group was planning on taking his cues when it came to the levels of interaction that proceeded, and that was reassuring. Feeling more in control, he moved on.

Next to Stark was Banner, the doctor, as he’d been briefed. _The Hulk._ The man himself, though, looked far less threatening and green than the monster. Bucky exchanged the same greeting with him as he had Stark.

Both Stark and Banner seemed dwarfed in comparison to the man/god standing next to them. _Thor._ He knew the least amount about this—alien? Though he remembers something about lightning, and the hammer hanging from his belt seems like something he’d heard mention of before.  

His world froze when he set eyes on the next man in the lineup. He was spiraling through memories, everything was wrong. This was wrong. He was—he was _dead._ They had told him… He had been so certain, so trusting, yet here he was. He remembered, training, planning, _killing_ with this man. More a boy at the time, god he had been a child, really. The man that never missed—Hydra’s third most prized asset, and he was here. Why hadn’t they told him? The hawk, _his_ hawk. Bucky thought he heard someone saying something, frantic shouting and soothing words over lapping but all he could think was _hawk_. “ястреб ястреб ястреб, я думал, что ты умер! Они сказали - О, мой ястреб!” Some corner of his mind was supplying that he was speaking in Russian, something that was viewed as a big, flashing warning sign here. But he couldn’t help it, he hadn’t been prepared, it was his _hawk_. He remembers now, remembers the blame he’d taken, the guilt he’d felt when they’d lost him. It all came rushing back, the suppressed ( _erased,_ his brain supplied) memories of the kid he’d somehow grown attached to when he was having trouble feeling anything at all. He hadn’t even recognized it at the time, was only now able to categorize it as friendship in hindsight, and _god_ did his head hurt.

The last thing Bucky remembers before everything went black was the look in the Hawk’s eyes, one of terror and sorrow and guilt. Bucky thinks he knows how that feels. Thinks he felt it when they told him it was his fault they’d lost one of the greatest assets in Hydra history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ястреб - "Hawk"  
> я думал, что ты умер! Они сказали - О, мой ястреб - "I thought you were dead! They said--oh, my hawk"
> 
> This chapter ending up being pretty short, really more of a prolouge than anything, but the rest should be a little longer. I wish I could promise a regular update, but honestly I'm just going to post as I write. Luckily, I've a very free summer so it shouldn't be a crazy wait. Thanks for reading and, as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

In the chaos of the Soldier’s breakdown, Clint managed to slip away into the shadows. He ran, silent as a shadow, to his rarely used bunk on the carrier.

 _Fuck._ Clint allowed himself a moment of anger, at James, at Hydra, and himself for thinking he could hide away from his past and it would never come back to kick him in the ass. God, he’d been so stupid, so idiotic for thinking he could possibly hide something like this forever. He let out a noise of frustration as he kicked the frame of his bed, and then did it again for good measure. He knew he didn’t have much time before Nat caught up to him, and wasn’t surprised when a hand caught his shoulder before he could kick the bed again. Clint deflated then, one part too tired to continue and two parts too smart to try to deflect Natasha. He turned around to face her, and then sat down on the bed. She held eye contact for a few tense moments, assessing him quietly. Finally, she spoke up.

“They all think he was responding to seeing me again in person, and luckily the two of us were the only ones who spoke Russian in the room,” Clint knew she was starting out with the facts to ease him, to let him know nobody suspected anything of him yet. That wouldn’t matter soon, though. Eventually they’d figure it out, once James woke up.

“So I guess I have to let go of the hope that he wouldn’t remember me, huh?” Clint asked, a poor attempt at a joke. Natasha sighed and pulled up the desk chair from the opposite wall to meet his level.

“You have to tell them, Clint. The team, at the very least, and Phil. They deserve to know. I’ve kept your secret for you this long because you’ve asked me to, and because you had a life established here when I arrived and it didn’t seem fair to ruin that for you. But you have to stop living this lie, and it’s far better coming from you than from the Solider and you know that,” Natasha had a way of getting through to him that few people have ever achieved, and she knew it. Her words were firm but understanding; she knew better than anyone what one was likely to face when your name reads on the same line as ‘Hydra’ and ‘asset’.  

“What if they don’t trust me anymore? I can’t lose them, can’t lose this team, can’t lose Phil,” he sounded desperate even to his own ears. But it was the truth; this was the only family he’d ever had, and well. It’s a lot easier to miss something you’ve never had, but if Clint had to go back to flying solo after experiencing the team as a family, it might just be the thing that destroys him.

“You will never lose me, Clint, and you know that. Look how quickly they’ve accepted James, Steve already trusts him again, and the team trusts Steve. They won’t desert you.”

“James is different and you know it,” Clint shot back. And it was true; it’s a lot easier to forgive someone who’d been your best friend for years, someone who did Hydra’s work because they were brainwashed into doing it. Steve’s ‘Bucky’, who seems to be more or less the man wearing the Soldier’s body now, didn’t choose Hydra. He wasn’t the same agent who’d worked alongside the Hawk and the Widow, not like Clint and Natasha were. Bucky may still have some of the Soldier’s instincts, but he wasn’t the same man. Clint didn’t have that claim, and they’d all know it. “I chose Hydra. I worshiped them, for years, Natasha. And James will remember that, he’ll remember enough that they won’t want anything to do with me. Oh god, and Shield, can you imagine how pissed Fury will be when he finds out I’ve been lying to them all for decades?” And Phil. Clint had spent years trying not to think of what Phil might think about him if he ever knew. Only during his darkest moments would he torture himself with the things Phil would say if he ever knew. And now, he was going to know. Clint was going to be forced to tell him.

Natasha sighed, and reached for his hand, in a rare display of affection. He knew this would impact her as well, and took a moment to belittle himself for putting her in this position in the first place. “I’m sorry, Tasha. I know this won’t be easy on you either.”

She flashed him a sharp smile. “I knew the moment they told us they’d found James that we were going to have a rough few months. The years the three of us spent together… those are memories that will be hard to relive. But we have to, and you need to tell them the truth before it becomes more of a mess than before.” Natasha squeezed his hand after a few seconds, and then the moment had passed. She was no longer his Tasha, and he knew it was meant to be a sign for him to get his own act together as well. He wasn’t quite ready to face the music though, and the look she gave him said she understood but wouldn’t coddle him anymore. With a nod, his way of saying thank you, Clint strode out of the room.

Before his whole life blew up in his face, Clint wanted a few more moments to be selfish, to live in this lie of a life for as long as he could. With that in mind, Clint turned towards the elevators and made his way to Phil’s office.

 

* * *

 

            

Phil was just sitting down after what had been an exhausting debrief with multiple doctors, psychologists, and the Avengers (sans Clint and Natasha, which he needed to remember to ask the former about next time they saw each other) when Clint appeared on the soft, black leather couch that the archer had claimed as his own years ago. Phil allowed himself a little smile at the sight of his partner, because really, Clint looked adorable sprawled out on the couch as he was.

“Agent Barton,” he said, letting the hint of a smile bleed into the words themselves. “I missed you and Romanov at the debriefing of today’s meeting.” 

Clint’s answer was muffled by the cushion he still had his face firmly planted in, but Phil managed to catch the words, “You know how much I hate those things, boss.”  

Phil let his lips quirk up into something more of a cocky grin as he replied, “Well, luckily you’re here now, so you can go ahead and start giving me your report.”

Clint sat up, and Phil thought for a moment he was actually going to _comply_ (foolish of him), before he opened his mouth and purred, “how about I give you something else, boss?”

Phil started to chuckle at that, before he glanced up from his papers and really looked at Clint. There was something in his expression, something you’d only be able to pick up on from years of knowing Clint in and out, that unsettled Phil. Something was wrong. Though, after a moment of hesitation, in which Clint had begun to make his way behind Phil’s desk and up to the chair, Phil decided it was probably just residual concern for Natasha. This was going to be a difficult experience for her, seeing Barnes after so long. He had just decided to put it out of his mind when Clint started kissing him, and just fell into the kiss.

The angle was awkward, Phil still sitting while Clint reached down to meet him, so Phil stood up. Clint’s hands, which had been resting lightly on the back of Phil’s neck, gripped tighter with the motion, and Phil found himself pushed up against the back wall of his office. The soft kiss took a turn for the wrong side of desperate, feeling frantic in a way that made Phil’s earlier assumption force its way back to the front of his mind. After a few seconds of kissing, Clint’s intensity had yet to die down or change tones, and Phil found himself pushing back on the man’s shoulder gently in order to break the kiss. One look at Clint’s expression made Phil feel the need to cup his face with his hands, the urgency for intimacy caused by the painfully _lost_ look on Clint’s face.

“Clint, what’s going on?”

Clint must have known that the normal façade he put on would have no impact on Phil, couldn’t change what he’d seen or still saw in Clint’s face, but he put it on anyways. “What, can’t a guy be happy to see his boyfriend?” Clint joked, the humor not meeting his eyes. Phil’s worry was expanding by the second; he always knew it was serious when Clint began shutting him out. They’d been working on it, but evidently not enough. Phil sighed, and moved his hands down Clint’s face to rest more comfortably on the archer’s shoulders.

“I know something’s wrong. What happened? Talk to me, Barton.” Sure, some would call that a low blow, but Clint always offered up information more readily when he felt like it was just another mission to be reported on. It worked for them, most of the time.

“I’m still figuring it out. I’ll talk to you later, okay? I just need more time,” Clint’s voice was reassuring, but his eyes still looked troubled. And sure, it was a good sign that he was admitting there was at least something they needed to talk about it, but Phil was hesitant to leave it at that.

“Just promise me you’re not dying?” Clint huffed out a genuine, though soft, laugh, and sure maybe Phil was being a little ridiculous, jumping straight to that, but it wasn’t completely unfounded. “You were kissing me like the world was ending; excuse me for being a little concerned.”

“Sorry,” Clint whispered, giving him a soft peck on the lips. “Sorry,” he said, louder this time, as he took a few steps back. “I just needed to see you. I love you, Phil.” And with a sad kind of wave and a soft smile, Clint walked out of the office.

Phil stood backed up against the wall and stared at the door, as if it were withholding the secret conversation he has a distinct feeling he and Clint had just had without his knowledge. And more than that, wondering why, if neither of them is dying, it suddenly felt like they were living on borrowed time.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come join me on tumblr, if you want- hawk-bye.tumblr.com !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the positive feedback so far! It's really encouraging me to focus on this story-hence the new chapter so soon. Hopefully the next chapter will be done in the next few days, but for now, enjoy chapter three.

_Natalia was a dot; a red beacon in the sea of gray snow. Clint could feel the wet sludge beneath his knees, a consistent pinprick of icy daggers shooting into his skin, keeping him alert. It was a familiar comfort, combined with the weight of his bow, sitting undrawn in his palm. The team had been here for hours, Natalia, James, and him, would be for as many more as it took for the mark to show. There was nothing for them but the mission. The wind changed directions, Clint shifted with it; boots made the softest of crunching noises where they met icy resistance. Clint could just make out the Soldier’s long hair, whipping with the ruthless wind, on the other cliff. The weak, winter sun glinted off the arm, emphasizing the cold, inhumanity it suggested. Time stood still; a bubble of focus surrounds them when they work, in which minutes muddled into hours and days could be measured by seconds. It was dangerous to think of anything but the target; a lapse in focus could mean the difference of three inches—the difference between a job well done and a session with Trickshot. Yet, Clint thought endlessly in this moment. Thought of James, the look in his eyes after every time they wiped his mind. Thought of Natalia, trained into her rejection of compassion. Thought of himself, being better off without Hydra. Thought of, more than anything, what his life would mean without the mission._

_A flicker of movement, the whisper of Widow’s hair against the dullness of the terrain caught his eye, and in half a moment Clint was wholly consumed by the mission once more. The mark had arrived, his guard two dozen strong. Horses whinnied and stomped in the halt, no doubt in protest of the cold. The noises of the simple-minded animals reverberated throughout the walls of the cliff. The choked, wet sounds they made as they dropped heavily to the ground echoed in the pregnant silence that lasted an entire lifetime for Clint. The guard were now in chaos; a rookie mistake, by large. Natalia weaved in and out of the ranks, dropping them one by one. No one cared if the precise, gaping wounds she left were lethal. It was James and his job to kill, hers to intimidate._

_Clint knew what the mission was; it never changed. Put an arrow through the heart of Hydra’s enemies. Each breath he took felt like stones, falling down into the depths of his lungs and refusing to rise upon the next inhale. The mission was suddenly impossible; Clint had done something he was not supposed to do, by thinking. He’d thought about the job and was now incapable of doing it. His muscles felt too tight, too constricted by the moral injustice he felt suddenly and overwhelmingly._

_He had a new mission, one appointed by himself and for himself: get out._

_It would be easy, Clint knew, to set it up as a job gone wrong. Hydra would accept his death as they did every agent’s. James wouldn’t remember it come the next few weeks; Natalia would refuse to feel any way about it. Only Trickshot would know. It was a fact of Clint’s universe that Trickshot would be able to know him twelve miles off. He felt it like the weight of a chain around his neck; felt each encounter with the man like another link, slowly but firmly dragging his neck to the ground in an effort to achieve complete and unyielding submission. And Clint was tired of his chains._

_Each movement was made with an out of body precision that felt existential in a comforting way. There was no longer the fight down below, or the target to be eliminated; there was only Clint and his gray, sludgy cliff. Maybe it was the cold, numbing him beyond feeling, or the disconnect between mind and body, but Clint felt nothing as he watched blue-tinged fingers wrap tightly around the shaft of an arrow and cut deep into the soft tissue of his side. The blood that poured out was familiar in every way except for that it was Clint’s, not the mark’s, which stained the snow. Clint felt each drop like a drum, sounding off the release of each link, falling from the chain that had so long controlled him._

_The freedom was exhilarating; it filled each crevice of his mind until he was consumed by the sudden and all-encompassing joy of it. It was like a million volts, coursing through him all at once, reconnecting him to his body in a rush of sensations. The pain hit him in the next second; rolling nausea that would have overcome him if not for his training. Clint allowed himself one more second to revel in the sensations of it all before getting back to work._

_He felt the snap of each arrow like the breaking of a rib; when the deep crack of his bow bounced around in his head, he felt it like a hole through his heart, and was almost certain his two comrades must have heard the sound themselves. He knew now that his time was limited. The wasting of his weapons was a necessary evil, as no one would expect him to leave them in the state if there was a single breath left in his miserable lungs. They would look no further for a body, not with such telling evidence like this. Only Trickshot would guess. Only Trickshot would know. He gave one final glace at the bloody color of Natalia’s head and the stifling whip of James’ hair, and said his final, silent goodbye._

_From that moment on, Clint slipped into auto pilot. He’d been planning this for months, kept secret even from his own consciousness in order to hide his treason. Not until that moment on the cliff did he know what he needed to do._

_He ran._

_Each footfall was the sound of a gun, muffled by the silencer of the untouched blanket of snow. All open ground was his possible grave. Clint ran, but only for a few miles. Hydra would expect him to be dead; Trickshot would expect him to be long gone. He needed stitches. The provided medical kit was lacking in many departments, but there was a needle and thread for certain, and Clint felt each moment he put off stopping in the small box in his front pocket, searing a brand into his skin._

_He stitched._

_The pull of the thread was nothing but an annoying itch on the skin of his freedom, and he felt very little of it. He knew now that he was safe from his real enemies, and that was all that mattered. As he worked each stitch in precise, methodical movements, he picked up a cry from long past in the canyon._

_He heard Trickshot’s final words every spoken to him just once in reality, but he’s heard them in his dreams many times since._

_The echoes of “Traitor!” followed him for the remainder of his journey. In each whisper of the trees and bite of the wind he heard the word repeated over and over, until the sound of the man’s voice morphed into another’s. And on that first night of freedom, he teetered closely on the verge of blackness, and an older version of him placed the new man’s voice just as the cold shiver of the snow collapsed into his body and sleep took over._

Clint shot up with a gasp, the white sheets of the bedding looking too much like icy sludge to keep his hands from clawing at his body to escape. The cold sweat inched its way down his back, washing with it the sensation of the cruel, winter nights. His breath was ragged in is chest, and he felt, rather than heard, it in the rushing of his blood, the pounding of his heart. Phil stirred next to him, and the flow of blood in his ears was replaced by the echo of his dream, chasing the blood right out of his head, and into the dropping of his stomach.

“Clint?” Phil mumbled, voice rough from sleep, reaching for the place where Clint would have been, had he not jumped up.

“Sorry, it was just a dream, go back to sleep,” Clint was only half paying attention as Phil completely disregarded what he said and sat up.

“Are you okay?” Phil asked, more alert than he had been moments ago.

“Yeah, yeah of course. It was just a nightmare Phil, I’ll be fine. Go back to bed, I’m gonna go get a glass of water.” Clint pretended not to care when Phil made to get out of bed and follow him into the kitchen. When they were both seated at the table with a glass of water half emptied in front of each, Clint sucked it up and met Phil’s eyes.

What he saw there, the concern in the slight dip of his mouth, the love in the softness of his eyes, was enough to take Clint’s breath away on a good day. Right now, with the echo of Phil’s anger still ringing from his dream, Clint could barely hold back his tears. This, all the pure goodness of Phil, was so much more than Clint deserved he couldn’t even put it into words. It was the moment that Phil finally spoke, though, soft and earnest, which pushed him over the edge.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Clint’s hands rose to his face and began rubbing tiredly at his eyes. The hands moved to cup his own neck, rubbing absentmindedly as he let out a shuddery sigh. “I don’t deserve you, Phil.” He meant to say more, but he found the words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t force them out, no matter how much he needed Phil to know just how unevenly matched they were.

“Clint,” and Phil was moving his head, a minute negation of what he’d said, reaching out to pull one of Clint’s hands away from his neck in order to hold it with his own. The rough callouses were grounding in a way Clint hadn’t been aware he was missing; tethering him closer to reality, and bringing him out of the dream at last.

“I know, I know, sorry,” he said, because he did know. Clint’s horrendous self-esteem was one of the things they’d worked so hard to overcome in the early days of their relationship, and so this conversation had transitioned into familiar territory. “It was just a bad dream, shook me up a bit. I’m fine, seriously,” he punctuated the statement with a squeeze to Phil’s hand, in an attempt to reassure him. He even put on a watery smile, only half forced, though he was sure it wasn’t reaching his eyes.

“Did you dream have to do with what was going on earlier today?” Phil’s voice was quiet, but it blanketed the sharp contrast of artificial light and darkness that prevailed in the latest hours of the night, softening the room and surrounding the two men in their own, secret little world.

And Clint knew he should take advantage of the moment, come clean with Phil about his past, put it all out there once and for all and accept the little victory that would come with Phil being the first to know, and hearing it from him. But he just couldn’t, not when he felt so safe and comforted by the atmosphere Phil had created for them.  He couldn’t lie either; lying would only make the eventual fallout so much worse. So, he went with the next best option.

“Yeah, it does,” he sighed. “But I’m not ready yet.” At the look on Phil’s face, he amended, adding, “Soon, I promise,” before punctuating his point by standing and returning to the bedroom.

He heard Phil putting away the half-empty glasses of water before the door cracked and a beam of light shone through, illuminating Phil’s silhouette. The bed shifted as he climbed in, and Clint allowed himself a smile when Phil pecked his shoulder.

“Love you,” he mumbled, lazily turning his neck to throw the words over his shoulder at Phil.

Thanks to the awkward position, he could see the outline of Phil’s own smile as he returned the sentiment, before falling flat on the bed. Looking at the clock, which read 2:03 AM, Clint resigned himself to four hours of fake sleeping and obsessive thoughts, as Phil’s breathing evened out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soo sorry for the delay on this chapter. I've been crazy busy this week getting some personal stuff in order, but its finally here! The next chapter should be out next Wednesday-I'd put it up sooner for you guys but I won't be able to write anytime soon for the next week or so, and I feel it would be better to space it out. Shit starts to hit the fan at the end of this chapter and the end of the next one, so hopefully the wait will be well worth it! But for now--
> 
> enjoy!

Bucky awoke slowly, the smell of antiseptic and the feeling of hospital sheets sending his brain into a panic. Only years and years of muscle memory, waking up with the same feeling of dazed confusion in Hydra’s medical ward, allowed him to remain stoic and calm externally. He allowed his senses to take over, doing a full physical assessment of himself without needing to open his eyes. There didn’t seem to be any outstanding physical injury, and as the haze of a medically induced sleep faded away, he concluded that there was no numbness that would be indicative of pain relief medication.

Deciding that he hadn’t been restrained to the cot for an actual medical injury, Bucky began to think back. It still took a while, each time he woke up, to remember that he was allowed to remember things now. When his thoughts conjured up the last thing he could recall, Bucky’s eyes shot open.

The Hawk was here. _Here_ , as in _not dead_ and _a member of Steve’s team._

Bucky’s eyes started searching frantically around the room, knowing Steve would be here somewhere and needing answers. The man cleared his throat just as Bucky panned over to him, notably sitting just far enough away to be out of arms distance.

“Buck? You with me?” Bucky knew that this was Steve’s polite way of asking whether or not he was consciously Bucky Barnes or the Winter Soldier at the moment. The fact that this was the first time in almost a month that his friend had greeted him with that question smarted a little. It felt like his progress had not just been halted but reversed by the shit storm of a meeting.

“Yeah,” his voice sounded as rough as it felt. The sensation of sandpaper in his throat was so familiar at this point that it didn’t faze him; it’s pretty par for the course, after you’ve experienced prolonged artificial sleep once or twice.  Steve seemed to notice, though, and got up to hand him a cup of ice water. Bucky noticed that his chair moved forward with him, and remained closer to the bed when he sat down. He didn’t say anything.

“You’ve been out for about sixteen hours,” Bucky was internally grateful for the time stamp; it helped for him to get his bearings back and there were no clocks in the room. “Do you remember what happened?” Steve’s voice was soft, the way you’d speak to a spooked animal. Bucky would say he didn’t appreciate it, but given what he remembers about the way he reacted it was probably warranted.

“Yeah,” he said, and then after a moment of consideration, “I want to talk to Natalia.”

Steve took on an uncomfortable expression, rubbing the back of his neck in his age old tell of nerves. “I think the doctors want to give it a bit more time before we try that again, your reaction to Natasha was a tad… more than they thought it would be. It’s probably best we don’t dive head first into face to face contact again. Probably soon, though, I’m sure you’ll work your way right back up to it Buck—” Steve cut off whatever addition platitudes he was probably planning on giving when he noticed Bucky’s head shaking firmly.

 “It wasn’t Natalia—or, Natasha, now I guess. It wasn’t her.”

 “What do you mean it wasn’t her? Bucky, what you experienced was a relapse into the Winter Soldier persona based on the memory overload that was brought on by seeing Natasha—”

 “No, it wasn’t.”

Steve sighed. “Bucky…”

Bucky didn’t understand why Shield was blatantly ignoring the Hawk’s existence. Well, if Steve needed it spelled out for him, “Why didn’t you tell me about ястреб?” Steve continued to look confused. “Steve, why would shield warn me about one of my former Hydra teammates and not the other?”

“Natasha is the only former Hydra member we have on the team, Bucky; I think you were mistaken…”

Bucky was just beginning to open his mouth and voice his frustration at the apparent communication barrier when there was a knock at the door, and an apologetic agent entered the room. “Captain Rogers, I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a call from the tower for you. They want you over there immediately; Agent Romanov says it’s urgent.”

Steve allowed himself a moment to cradle his head in his hands, before composing himself and standing. “I’ll be back, Buck. Try to get some rest.” Bucky wanted to argue that he’d just had sixteen hours of rest and hardly needed any more, but Steve was already on his way out. He let out an annoyed breath. All he wanted were some answers, and honestly, he thinks he deserves some. He’s tired of being lied to and manipulated by these bullshit organizations.

He flexed his hands, one at a time, counting his breaths in measures of five. His mind was still playing catch up, in a sense, with the realization that he needed to reevaluate everything he thought he knew as fact. Anything Hydra told him was up for deliberation, that was something he’d known for a while, but now he was scared to realize that maybe that magnifying glass needed to be turned on Shield and—and _Steve_ as well. He thinks, in retrospect, it had probably been mind-blowingly dumb to trust Shield so easily in the first place. They’re arguably the same as Hydra, just a different name and a different cause. Or perhaps, a different view of what achieving ‘security’ and ‘world peace’ actually meant. At the heart of it, both organizations preached the same end game, just a different way of viewing it. Bucky had been so caught up in remembering himself and reconnecting with his best friend that he hadn’t even opened his mind to the possibility that somebody here might not have his best interest at heart.  

The lack of clock in the room means Bucky has no way of knowing how long he sat in contemplation, but after what seemed like both hours and seconds since Steve had walked out, the door opened again. This time though, the face that greeted him was that of a Shield agent.

 _Agent Coulson,_ his memory supplied. The man paused by the door, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, Bucky realized. He nodded his head at the seat Steve had vacated, and that seemed to be enough to encourage the man to enter the room and stop at the foot of Bucky’s bed. He didn’t make any move to approach the chair that Bucky had signaled at, though, just crossed his hands in front of him and waited.

He had a seeming resting stoic expression, making it virtually impossible to read him. The impeccably pressed suits that Bucky had yet to see rumpled in any way gave him the impression of an out of touch desk-jockey, but Bucky’s memories of his arrival at Shield were enough to make it clear to him that those kinds of underestimations would, and most likely have, led to the downfall of many dangerous people. He seemed to always be a step ahead of everyone, and Bucky was equal parts impressed and suspicious about it. For example, the man was still standing there, looking for all the world that he was the one who had invited Bucky into the room, and he was just beginning to wonder if he was expected to say something first when Coulson finally spoke up.

“I’m sorry that circumstance has led you back to this room, I know from experience that it can be dull as all get out when you’re faced with prolonged periods of time.” Bucky just raised his eyebrows, and the Agent clearly took it for the response it was and continued. “Your therapy was going extremely well, and the lack of adverse reactions to Agent Romanov’s likeness in the recent weeks means that what happened yesterday was certainly, ah, unexpected. With that in mind, Mister Barnes, is it safe to assume you were just as surprised as the rest of us at your reaction?” Coulson’s lips were quirked up just the slightest bit, as if they were sharing some kind of inside joke, as if he were trying to say ‘ _what can you do about it, am I right?’_ , but Bucky was not having it. Whatever game Shield thought they were playing here was not going to faze him anymore.

“Well, I would find it a little surprising to be faced with two of my former colleagues when I was only warned about one, wouldn’t you?” Bucky had to forcibly remind himself to unclench his hands. The anger he felt right now was built up out of years of manipulation and lies and only deepened when Agent Coulson’s half-smile turned into more of a confused frown. He didn’t know much about the man, or Shield, but he knew enough to know that any agent worth half their shit can fake their way through an interrogation. None of the confusion he’d seen on both Coulson and Steve was enough to convince him they were any more in the dark than he was.

“Unfortunately you’ve lost me, Barnes.”

Bucky growled, looking up towards the ceiling to refocus his thoughts. “I’m the one that’s lost, Agent. Up until yesterday I thought ястреб was dead, and you didn’t even bother to mention that he was on your _team_?” The man’s face grew far more focused, any light, conversational tone he’d been trying to impose was gone as he stood straighter and forced his face into a neutral façade—a way of hiding, Bucky noted. Which meant, for the first time since Bucky had met the man, Agent Coulson was no longer one step ahead. He was the one trying to play catch up, and it reflected in the defensive shift in his body language. For the first time, a small flicker of doubt about his all-evil-corporation theory appeared.  

“I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Russian. I’m going to need you to clarify for me, Mister Barnes, because as far as I am aware, Agent Romanov and yourself were the only former Hydra assets that were present in that room.” The flicker of doubt caught on to the words and worked itself into a small flame; with the lack of expression on the man’s face, Bucky couldn’t be sure whether or not what he was hearing was real or if he was being played once more, but his gut instinct is telling him that for some reason, Agent Coulson is telling him the truth.

Bucky also wasn’t aware he’d spoken any Russian, though it makes sense. He’d only every known the Hawk as the Soldier, so the verbal association was bound to be in Russian. The only problem was that because of the disconnect between Bucky and the Soldier, it sometimes made it hard to translate between the two languages he’d known in such different lives. He sat for a full minute, trying to pull the English work he could relate to ястреб, knowing that it was possible that the man went by a completely different alias now. Eventually, it came to him.

“ _The Hawk_. Does that… Do you know who I mean?” Coulson didn’t give him any response to that, positive or negative, so he continued on. “He and Natalia and I worked together for many years. We were Hydra’s favorite team. They told me he had died, many years ago. It… broke my heart; I mean he’d just been a kid when I first met him. I didn’t always remember much of him, but I guess I remembered enough. Seeing him felt like… Kinda like vertigo,” Bucky bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood; he needed to forced himself to stop talking, because it was just plain stupid to reveal so much to someone he wasn’t even sure he trusted at all yet.

Coulson seemed distressed, like his façade was barely holding up, and Bucky got the distinct expression he was falling apart beneath it, which was… Interesting. He pulled out his cellphone, touched a few buttons, then held up a picture of the Hawk looking so casual and relaxed that Bucky felt a pang in his chest.

“Is that him, the Hawk?” Coulson asked.

Bucky nodded, without hesitation.

“Right, thank you. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Barnes. Try to get some rest.” And with that, Agent Coulson walked out of the room, leaving Bucky wondering why people kept telling to sleep when he’d joke woken up, and more importantly, with a burning fire consuming his brain with the idea that Shield had been just in the dark about _The Hawk_ as he’d been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ястреб- The Hawk
> 
> As always, comments and critique are welcome and encouraged (especially where I use Russian, as it's all from google translate so if any of the translations are wrong, feel free to tell me!) 
> 
> See you next Wednesday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Update- fixing some continuity errors that were just pointed out to me! Much thanks, and it should make more sense now. 
> 
> And here is chapter 5! Expect the next one within a week- I plan on getting it out for you guys as soon as possible! We're really going to start getting into the meat of this story here in the next few chapters, so be expecting lots of flashbacks and confessions and a healthy dose of angst. But for now-
> 
> Enjoy!

After the painful night and uncomfortable conversation he’d had with Phil, Clint knew he couldn’t put this off for much longer. If it were possible, he would have told Phil first, before the team or Shield. Unfortunately, work was a thing Phil was pretty committed to. Which was another pressure point for him to get this whole thing over with; James was likely to wake up some time today, and it very easily could be Phil that gets drafted into talking to him about what had happened yesterday. So, Clint planned on telling him everything the minute they had time alone today, consequences be damned. Until then, he’d start with telling the team. That is, if he can get the confidence to do so.

It was a running theory of Clint’s that Natasha had developed a way to read Clint’s mind over the years, and the fact that she’d let herself into his apartment at the tower the same moment he’d decided to talk the whole plan over with her first just added another positive mark to his hypothesis. She rolled her eyes at him as she sat down opposite him at the table, where he’d been musing over how much his life sucked for the past hour or so.

“I can’t read your mind, idiot. I just know you far too well.” Her tone softened ever so slightly from the hard edge of her sarcasm to a blunt but meaningful probing, something only a handful of people would ever be able to pick up on, as she asked, “are you going to do it today?”

“Yeah, I have to, don’t I? James is probably already awake and if they hear it from him first…” Clint let the sentence trail off. They both knew what was at stake if things unfolded poorly. Finding out one of your highest ranking assets and, for a lot of people, good friend had been lying to you about his entire history and upbringing, leaving out the pretty important fact of his involvement with their mortal enemy, was bad enough. But hearing about it from a formerly hostile assassin with questionable stability and who is still technically on trial for crimes against humanity? Probably the worst case scenario. Clint took a deep breath, refocusing his thoughts and compartmentalizing everything he didn’t want to think about. If he treated this whole ordeal as just another mission, instead of a high stakes gamble of every good thing he had going for himself, it wouldn’t be nearly as difficult, right? “Tasha, you know I hate to ask you to even think about those years, hell I was the one that insisted that we never do, but I don’t think I can do this without your help.”

“Of course, Clint. I’ll be by your side the entire time.” And Clint knew it was more likely that Natasha was just settling the score a little bit more, that her metal checklist of favors and dues was a byproduct of her emotional conditioning and that it was nearly impossible for her to do something for somebody else with not ulterior motive, not debt to be repaid, but it still feels good to have her by his side. And he firmly believed that Natasha cared about him, that she had compassion and love in her just like anybody, but he understood that she needed the practice the same way he needed to hit the bullseye every time, without fail. They were residual comforts from their upbringing, and he’d learned not to question them a long time ago. It works for them, that’s what matters.

Knowing he had Natasha’s support and help, Clint was able face the situation more head on than ever. It was time to come clean; he could admit that to himself now. “JARVIS,” Clint addressed the ceiling (and yes, he knew that technically the AI wasn’t God and didn’t reside in the sky, but seriously it just seemed wrong to not physically acknowledge him, so _shut up Tony_ ), “how many of the Avengers are currently in the tower?”

“Four, Agent Barton. Sir is in his lab, Doctor Banner is currently in the communal kitchen, and of course Agent Romanov and yourself reside in your private rooms.”

“Thanks J, could you ask Tony and Bruce to meet us in the living room in, say, fifteen minutes?”

“It would be my pleasure, Agent Barton. Would you like me to attempt communications with Captain Rogers and Thor?” Clint glanced at Natasha, unsure of whether or not he should bother them or catch the two up later, though it would be kind of nice to let the whole team know all know at once. Clint’s definitely a fan of minimizing the number of times he’ll have to tell this story. Luckily for him, Natasha took over with JARVIS.

“Can you tell us where they are?” She asked. Clint saw she tried to avoid the impulse to turn her face to the ceiling, but was pleased to note that even Natasha can’t fight the urge to at least glance up with her eyes, however fleeting the movement.

“Certainly, Agent Romanov. Both were last recorded to be at Shield headquarters, Captain Rogers on the basis of visiting Mister Barnes in the medical bay, and Thor to pay a visit to Doctor Foster.”

“Call Shield, ask someone to grab Steve and Thor and point them in our direction, tell them it’s urgent.”

“Of course. Will that be all, Agent Romanov?”

“Yeah, thanks JARVIS,” Clint was saying, just as Natasha directed, “ When they get here, could you tell them to make their way up to meet us in the communal living room, and let them that there isn’t any immediate danger?”

“Oh, yeah, do what she says. That’s a good idea, make sure Steve doesn’t jump into Captain America mode for no reason,” Clint added, knowing that Steve wouldn’t be annoyed, per say, to be misled, but it wouldn’t hurt to not lead him in the wrong direction to start with. God bless Natasha and her critical thinking skills.  

“Yes, that seems to be a wise course of action, Agent Romaov. I’ll be sure to let Captain Rogers and Thor know when they are within range.” Also, has Clint mentioned _fuck Tony_ for installing sass into his fucking robot? Because, fuck Tony, really. Clint could tell that Natasha picked up on the AI’s tone as well, because her lips curled into a bold smirk, one of the rare displays of a complete emotion that will really hit a guy with how much Natasha trusts him. Clint could barely find it in him to continued being annoyed—barely, but he managed it, giving her a gentle shove accompanied by a bitter grumble as the made their way to the elevator, to which she responded with her trademark silence.

 

 

Bruce and Tony were already seated in the living room when Clint and Natasha arrived, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Though Clint didn’t doubt that they both had important things to do like, all the time, Clint calling a team meeting was rare enough that it probably sparked quite a bit of interest. At least he could be sure that what he had to say would live up to the expected shock factor.

The quiet conversation the two men had been engrossed in halted as they both caught notice of their entrance, two pairs of curious eyes turning up too meet two closed off, expressionless ones. While Clint didn’t share Natasha’s reputation for the perfect emotionless façade, he knew he could put up a damn good competition when he set his mind to it. And, for once, he was very keen on not letting anything show sooner than it need have.

“Clint, Nat, how are my two favorite assassins? And can I say, you both are looking extra terrifying today. What’s up with the angry faces, seriously? What’s the occasion? Not that I don’t love our family powwows, but—” Thankfully, Natasha cut off Tony’s seemingly endless barrage of words before he got too wound up.

“We’re waiting for Steve. Clint has something he wants to tell us all.” Clint appreciates the fact the she included herself in the ‘us’. Though, he has a feeling that she’s not fooling anybody by pretending she doesn’t know exactly what Clint has to say.

Steve chose that moment to make his grand entrance, looking for all the world like he would be winded if it were actually possible for him to get winded. Thor appeared right behind him, looking slightly confused with mjolnir still half drawn. Clint gets the idea that they didn’t waste any time getting to the tower, which is confirmed when the men finally reach the living room and Steve addresses Natasha.

“Next time you want to call a team meeting, do me a favor and don’t use the word ‘urgent’, okay? I thought one of you was dying.” The words were scolding, but there was no heat behind them. Clint thinks he just doesn’t want to let on how happy he is that the idea of team meetings seems to finally be catching on.

Natasha just shrugged, “it is urgent.”

Everyone was looking at her expectantly, clearly thinking she was going to say more, but she just directed her gaze at Clint. Okay, time to shine, people. Clint cleared his throat before sitting down in one of the armchairs, giving him full view of everyone in the room except Natasha, who was seated directly to his right in the other chair and was therefore only visible in his peripherals. Good enough, seeing as how he was one hundred percent certain she had his back. Bruce and Tony were seated on the couch that was most directly facing the giant television mounted on the wall and Steve and Thor took the loveseat that was across the room from Natasha and him. Clint spares a moment to think it was some kind of sick karma that Steve, the All-American golden boy who was just so damn earnest all of the time, was the one he’d be forced to face the most during this encounter. This was going to be one of the hardest things Clint will ever do, he knows that much.

“Okay, um, I’m going to ask you guys to hear me out, but I’ll understand if you don’t want to. It would just really be great if you did.” He chanced a look around, noting that Bruce looked calm and open to listening, Tony and Thor confused, and Steve just looked concerned. Okay, so eye contact was a bad idea. Not trying that again, no thank you. Clint’s eyes were going to stay firmly glued to the place where his thumb knuckle was turning white with how hard he was clasping his hands together. He took a sharp breath and pushed some more words out before any of them had a chance to say something nice or—god forbid, _encouraging._ “So, yesterday, when J— when the Soldier had his freakout? It wasn’t because of Natasha. It was… He recognized me. Because I used to be on the same Hydra task force as him and Nat.” Deep breath. In for five, hold for five, out for five. This was just a sitrep, just him updating his team and CO about need-to-know information, so why did it feel so much harder? He could sense the sudden tension in the room, just as he could tell Tony was trying to look at ease and Steve was trying to look engaged but unaffected.

“I don’t remember reading about that in your Shield file,” Steve didn’t sound like Steve, he sounded like Captain America. Clint wonders if he’d missed his last chance to be able to talk to _Steve_ ever again.

“That’s because Shield doesn’t know. Nobody knew, besides me and Nat.” Without looking up, Clint knew he’d never be able to gauge their reactions from this point forward. His eyes remained on his hands. “I grew up there, basically. I was nine when I joined, nineteen when I left. My Shield file is accurate from that point on.”

This time it was Tony who spoke up, sounding confused and, of course, angry, when he said, “So, the circus was a lie, then?” Clint felt bile rise up in his throat at the accusation that was clear in the question. This was far, far worse than he’d ever expected it to be.

“No, it was real, and I really was a part of it for a year and a half. That’s where I met Trickshot.” Clint was making an excruciating effort to keep the desperation and guilt out of his voice, and even then he wasn’t sure he was succeeding.                

“I’m guessing Trickshot wasn’t just a carnie who taught you an archery routine, then,” and it was Tony again, and _God_ , Clint hated how much he was hurting his friends right now. It was like you could hear all the walls they’d spent months tearing apart being laid back down, twice as strong as before.

“No, he wasn’t.” Clint closed his eyes; let himself pretend the quiet and the darkness meant he was asleep and that the past twenty four hours had just been a vicious nightmare. Then, he forced himself to delve into the memories he usually kept locked up in an air tight box in the dark recesses of his mind. Finally, he began to tell his story, more fully and detailed than he ever had before. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fairly short, and I'm not 100% happy with it, but I just wanted to get something out to you guys. My life got crazy all of a sudden, and unfortunately I'm not able to write nearly as often as I had been or as I wish I could. Still, this story is not abandoned! Thank you all for the kind words and kudos and such, they're super encouraging. And as always, enjoy!

Clint’s memories of his time before the circus are vague and muddled. He’s sure part of that has to do with the brain’s subconscious ability to block out painful childhood memories, but whatever. Most of what the team needs to know about his pre-circus years they’ve read in his file, so he glosses of the gory details that he does remember of his short time in his parent’s house, and the even shorter time in the orphanage with Barney.

After he hurriedly recaps the facts about his early childhood, Clint takes a long, deep breath and gathers his memories into a coherent timeline. Starting with, of course, the day Barney and he ran away from the orphanage to join the circus.

_Clint was scared, but it was something he was so used to feeling that it meant almost nothing to him at this point. In all of his seven years of life, he had yet to know a life or a home that didn’t mean constant fear. Barney, though, had said that they were running away to change that. He had promised Clint that when they got to the circus, they wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. It would be a better home, if a travelling one. Clint had replied that he would follow Barney anywhere, and that was that._

_And now, less than a week later, Clint was following Barney in the dead of night, trying his best to ensure his footsteps made no noise whatsoever. One tiny, grubby hand was clasped over his mouth to muffle the little sounds he made every now and then in the effort to escape without detection. The other was held tightly in one of Barney’s only slightly larger hands, pulling him along behind his big brother. That was how Clint knew, despite Barney telling him otherwise, that this was Scary and a Big Deal. Holding hands was not something that grown up twelve-year-old boys did with their little brothers._

_Despite the fear and the adrenaline, Clint had begun to yawn after a short time running. Barney squeezed his hand, the most reassurance he was willing to give without breaking their necessary silence, and they kept running. After what felt like hours, they reached a partially-collapsed circus camp. The bright, cheerfulness that usually radiated off the circus during daytime was gaudy and nightmarish in the early hours of the morning. Barney led him to a clearing, scattered with squashed popcorn and cotton candy tufts that rolled in the wind like a childish parody of tumbleweed. There they sat, and Clint drifted off against his brother’s shoulder until he was roughly awoken, a few hours and a sunrise later, by Barney jumping up to address the man whom meant nothing to them at this point, but would inevitably reshape Clint’s entire life plan._

_A week later, and the boys had been accepted into the dysfunctional circus family. They were tasked with providing basic care for the animals; feeding, cleaning, and securing them, each day and night. The head cook, Helga, (Clint was almost positive that wasn’t her birth name, but it seemed rude to ask about so he didn’t) took immediate liking to them and therefore made it her job to feed them until she deemed them healthy. They both seemed to have already put on a few pounds in the span of seven days._

_A month passed, and the thrill of the circus had died down to a dull routine—all but the show itself, of course. Barney and Clint’s favorite act to watch was Trickshot’s, who performed a dangerous knife act. Barney was especially enchanted by him; he had already decided that he was meant to be Trickshot’s next apprentice._

_A few months; Clint had just turned eight, they’d had a small celebration, circus style, but that’s not what makes the day eventful. Trickshot pulled him aside, his face glowing in the candlelight, and had asked Clint to train with him. “You’ve got a good eye,” he said, “you could be really good.” Clint said yes, of course he said yes. That was the beginning of the end, in a way._

_An hour later, the joyful night turned sour, when upon entering their tent, Clint found that Barney refused to meet his eyes. He just turned over in his cot and mumbled incoherently. And Clint, eight year old Clint, who idolized none like he did his big bother, lost a little bit of himself that night. And every day that Barney’s coolness towards him continued, he lost a little bit more. Much later in his life, Clint would obsessively blame this moment for all the wrong he’d done throughout his teenaged years. But now, it just hurt._

_For the next year, Clint discovered that Trickshot was right; he had a natural affinity for everything that Trick taught him. His shining moment was the day he picked up the bow; from that day on, he never practiced with anything else._

_Trick kept telling Clint he was grooming him to have his own show, when he was old enough. The prospect of being a star left Clint feeling bubbly and giddy for a whole week. For a while, it even overshadowed the guilt attached to his disintegrating relationship with his brother._

_A week after his ninth birthday, after an especially difficult practice, Trickshot sat Clint down and told him he’d earned his own show. The sun shone down from a hole in the tent, Clint was covered in hours’ worth of sweat, and he’d never been so happy in his life. Clint wanted to literally jump for joy, but he knew how Trickshot felt about childishness, and had learned long ago to be a mature young man around him._

_Still, Clint could not refrain from asking, “When do I start?” quickly followed by, “Do I get a stage name?” but before he could get out his next question, “What do I wear?” Trick held up his hand in a command of silence. Clint shut up immediately, and Trick brought his hand down to wrap around one of Clint’s wrists._

_“Before you agree to anything, I have another option for you to consider. There is a very… elite training academy that I am a part of. We do things much greater than these circus shows. If you like, we can go immediately to begin your next level of training there, with Hydra. You’d be a part of something much more important than some circus side show; you’d be doing a job that matters. Think it over, I want an answer tonight.” Trick squeezed his wrist before letting go and walking out of the practice tent, leaving Clint reeling._

_More important than the circus? The thought was almost inconceivable to him. Trick seemed serious about it, though, and Clint wanted nothing more than to be important. This job would make him important. But it was pretty clear that Barney would not be allowed to tag along to this elite training academy, and what kind of a brother would just leave their only family stranded, after they’d been through so much?_

_The pressure to decide was overwhelming. Clint all but ran back to his tent, in hopes of getting Barney to talk to him for long enough to update him on the wrench Trickshot had just thrown into their lives._

_Oddly enough, Barney wasn’t in their tent. The only other place Clint knew him to hang out was in the kitchen, with Helga, so he made his way there. Helga was there, stirring a large vat of the stew of the day, clearly busy. Still, she stopped to look down and smile at Clint when he arrived._

_“Hey sweetheart, what can I do for you?”_

_“Have you seen Barney? He’s not in our tent.” Helga’s face dropped immediately, and Clint felt his stomach bottom out. “What? What is it?” He demanded._

_“Hon… Barney left. He came to say goodbye to me early this mornin’. I thought you knew,” Helga stopped stirring her stew to pull him in to an awkward, sweaty hug, and Clint still should have returned it but he couldn’t think. His whole body was buzzing, but not in a good way. He felt sick, like he did when every boy in his room at the orphanage had managed to catch the flu, as he felt the last shred of hope for his relationship with Barney slip away. Somehow, Barney ended up being the kind of a brother would just leave their only family stranded; even after all they’d been through._

_That night, he and Trickshot left the circus for good._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has me super busy, and unfortunately the rate of updates will most likely stay at the rate they have been. That being said, I couldn't help but knock this one out super quick for you guys! It is fairly short, but it was time to get some more Phil action in on this. 
> 
> I'm not the happiest with this chapter, but I wanted to get it posted, so... Next chapter, hopefully will be longer. That being said, Enjoy!

Phil was having trouble breathing. His mind was jumping, thoughts unable to be pinned down with the rapidity that they were coming to him. He was compromised like this, and he knew it. Phil closed his eyes and forced himself to take three long breaths, which only helped a fraction of an amount. This was all too much. Realizing he’d reached his office door somehow, Phil was in his chair with the door shut in a record amount of time.

Twenty years. Phil had known Barton for over twenty years now, been with him for seven. How can you know someone since they were barely eighteen and suddenly find out that you haven’t really known them at all? There is no SHIELD protocol for this kind of situation; no one had ever imagined that someone would be able to infiltrate so deeply and thoroughly like Clint somehow had.

_Stop. Be rational here, Agent._

What circumstances would require such long-term commitment from an agent clearly important to Hydra, if he’d worked with both the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow? And furthermore, what would possess Phil to take the word of a brainwashed former agent of the enemy over someone he’s considered the closest and most trustworthy person in his life?

This was a mess, and Phil knew it. It was dangerous to be in this kind of a mental state at work, with so many other agents around. He needed to get out of here.

Phil grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and locked up as quickly as possible. The drive home was unremarkable except for the fact that Phil was struggling to remain fixated on the task of navigating New York traffic when all his brain wanted to do is think about Clint.

Arriving at the tower, Phil expected to need to curb questions and conversations from whatever Avengers happened to be around, but the place was oddly empty. He sent up a silent prayer when Clint wasn’t anywhere on their shared floor; he’d been so eager to get away from work that he hadn’t even contemplated what he would do if he ran into Clint at home. Phil was not in a good place to want to talk to Clint right now. He knew he was going to need some time to work out exactly what he was supposed to think about this whole situation, and what he’s supposed to say to Clint next time he sees him.

Phil heads to the bedroom by instinct. Usually, it’s the place he’s able to find comfort in his partner when work is giving him unexpected troubles. Now, though, it was definitely the wrong place to be. Glancing at the clock, Phil sees it’s only half past three o’clock in the afternoon—shockingly, it’s only been about forty minutes since he ran out of the hospital deck. It seems like a whole lifetime, to Phil.

In a way, it is; he now has to relive the past twenty years of his life over and over, questioning every single moment he’d taken for granted. It’s a bitter thing, having the happiest points of your life thrown into the spotlight and ripped of the comforts that come with things you thought you could take for granted. Now, everything is unsure. For a second, only a brief second, he hates the Soldier for doing that to him. But he can’t hate him for long, can’t commit to the feeling or blame Barnes for anything, because the agent in him knows he’d rather have the truth than continue to live in ignorance.

Still, Phil refuses to believe anything without unquestionable proof—another byproduct of the agent conditioning. He needs to confront Clint. Phil can finally admit that to himself. And until he does, he’s allowed to have the memories of their life together be untainted by any kind of accusation. Innocent until proven guilty, right?

Phil looked past the clock, to the framed picture he kept at his bedside. He smiled as he picked it up: it was Clint, when he was probably twenty-five or twenty-six. The beginning of their relationship was still years off at this point. Clint had finally lost the majority of his defenses around Phil, enough that the two were able to become the closest person in each other’s lives. They’d found an old, mangy dog on one of their many house raids at the time, this one ending up being deserted and a complete dud. That was the day Phil had learned that Clint was a major animal lover. He hadn’t let go of the dog from the minute they’d found him. Probably would have kept the thing, if their jobs allowed for the time required for keeping pets. The photo was of Clint cradling the dog in his arms, the brightest smile in the world on his face, the kind of smile Phil found directed at him in the years to follow. Looking at the photo, Phil felt the slightest bit reassured; how could the same man pictured here have been one of the top assassins for the greatest terrorist group in the world?   


	8. Chapter 8

Everyone was staring at Clint. Had he been able to look away from his hands for a second, he would have been shocked to see that even Captain America had let go of his composure and was sitting with his mouth slightly gaping open. It might have even been funny, in different circumstances. Tony, on the other hand, looked like every single one of his copious trust issues had been dredged up and inflated; in truth, they probably had. Natasha knows that this isn’t something that comes without necessary processing time, but still. She would have thought her teammates better equipped for surprise than this. In any case, at least she now knows that if she needs to get rid of them all via heart attack all she’d have to do is tell them the truth of her own tragic origin.

Tuning back in to Clint’s story, she realizes he’s gone quiet. There’s a pregnant pause, in which everyone is waiting for the part that he actually gathered them her for. Natasha gives him a silent, ten second count down before once again covering his ass.

“Clint went through the typical routines when he first arrived. They were the same kinds of skill set assessments you all went through when you joined Shield, though of course he was only nine years old. I met him a few weeks after he officially became an asset; I was probably about thirteen. Giving me a partner was a big deal. I was Hydra’s pet project and number one agent, and at the time, not even James was cleared to work with me. I—”

“You were an active agent at _thirteen_?” Tony was, for one of the greatest minds of their time, incredibly stupid.

“Yes, Tony. I was an active agent at thirteen. Clint was an active agent at nine. The first time he almost bled to death by my side, he was eleven.” Natasha probably would have gone on, just for the satisfaction of Tony’s anger fading into an expression of horror, but she felt Clint take a deep breath beside her.

“What Nat is getting at,” he said, eyes still firmly on his clenched hands, “is that Hydra doesn’t care about age, or truth, or autonomy. They would have exploited us in any way possible if it meant that we kept killing their enemies. And they did. But even if it was safe to think about leaving, it wasn’t possible. I had no family, no friends, and no idea where the base was physically located. So, I worked for them. I worked with Nat, which, believe her, was a big deal. She was the most professional, the most stoic thirteen year old you’ll ever meet, and she didn’t trust me to match her skill until, what was it?” Clint finally looked away from his hands long enough to direct his question to Natasha.

“It was our fourth mission together. Your nest was compromised, and you were forced to fight hand-to-hand like me. You were proficient enough that I finally believed you wouldn’t result in the both of us getting punished for a sloppy mission.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Nat and I worked together for three years, just us two. Then, when I was twelve, they put James on our team.”

Natasha remembers that mission vividly. It was one of the rare occasions she was forced to trust in somebody besides herself to get her out alive. She hated that mission more than anything—more than Budapest, so many years later.

_The briefing was long and intimidating. “Mess this up, and we won’t forget it,” they said. Natalia knows what that means. She knows that no matter what, she will ensure that the target is eliminated. She must._

_She refuses to look at ястреб as they were escorted to their separate rooms, though she was aware of his anxious glances thrown her way. She would not show fear or unease in front of the agents. She was better than that, had been for years. They had trained her better than that. She does, however, allow him a small smile as they lock his chamber doors for the night. He will need it, she knows._

_They meet the Soldier the next morning. He is large and haunted looking, but Natasha is not afraid of him. His eyes speak more than his mouth does the entire mission, and they tell her that he is scared. Natalia knows that fear is weakness, and so she knows that she does not need to be scared of the Soldier, because he is weak with his fear._

_By the end of the mission, when Natalia is fighting for consciousness in the arms of the Soldier, she does not think he is weak._

_They had killed the target, but not before his men had cut both ястреб_ _and herself down more than they’d ever been damaged before. If not for the Soldier, they would not have survived. Natalia thinks the bosses know this, because from then on, their team is three._

With a slight shake, Natasha pulls herself out of the memory. She may have underestimated how much this process would have actually included her. “Сколько вы планируете говорить им*?” She addresses Clint.

With a sigh, he replies, “Все, что я могу*.”

Natasha gives him a curt nod and then turns back to the group. “The first time we worked with the Soldier was one of the most important missions of our lives. Clint and I both came within inches of death; because we both knew that completing the mission was more important than living, especially when what life would be like after a failure of that magnitude is considered. We lived because the Soldier managed to carry us both out to the evac location. From then on, we were a team of three. The stakes, however, did not change. Our options were complete the mission or receive reprimand. To the Soldier, that was a memory wipe. To Clint and I, it was a training session with Trickshot, who did not pull punches.

“What it is important for you all to grasp from this information is that there was nobody there for us during those years, especially not each other. I would have quickly and efficiently sold Clint out if he had failed to meet a standard. He knows this, and I know he doesn’t blame me for it. It’s all I knew how to do. All any of us knew how to do was survive.” Clint’s hand found hers and gave a gentle squeeze before he took over. She knew what he was saying—thank you, but this is my story to tell. He was giving her permission to stop sharing pieces of herself she didn’t want to. She squeezed his back, and she knew he got her message just as clearly as she got his—I’m behind you through whatever happens. It will never be self-preservation over him again, not when it comes to manipulative government agencies.

“I was scared, guys. I was terrified. I had nobody, not even my teammates, and all of a sudden I was killing people for a living. I didn’t have an option, you have to understand that. A child isn’t smart enough to escape something like Hydra. They seemed like they owned the world; they talked like there wasn’t a crevice on Earth they couldn’t reach if they wanted to. I was treading water to stay alive. I can admit, at first I thought it was amazing. I was finally useful, that’s more than I could have ever dreamed of. Then they told me I had to kill people. And like, suddenly it hit me that I was out of my element. Then I met Nat, who was so unbelievably scary and good at what she did. It took me years to even realize that she was, in the end, just as much a child as I was. They forced it out of us. And the worst part is that, in the beginning, I didn’t even care. I worshiped them. Hydra had given me a life and a purpose. We did their work for years. It wasn’t until later that I started to feel like I was suffocating there. It wasn’t until I was much older before I knew that what we were doing was wrong, and that Hydra was bad, and that I didn’t want to be the person they’d made me into.”

Natasha, who had been watching Clint intently throughout his tirade, whipped her head around to face Steve when she heard him moving forward on the couch. It was the first sound any of their team members had made in a while.

Steve coughed and glanced at the rest of the team, clearly revving up to say something. Natasha knew Clint would pause long enough for him to formulate his comment, so she took the moment to look around the room.

Everyone was in different emotional states. Thor looked contemplative, and much less offended by the secrets than everyone else. He presumably had the most objectivity on the matter, as the rest of the team had more personal problems with Hydra than he. Bruce was trying his hardest to give Clint a thorough hearing before passing judgment, Natasha knew. Steve always had looked out for the best interest of the team as a whole, and this will surely be no exception. Tony, right now, is too conflicted for Natasha to even want to decipher what was going on in his head.

Finally, Steve spoke up. “You did leave, though. How did you manage that?”

For the first time since he started speaking, Clint looked at the group. “I faked my death,” he said, so monotonously that it took them all a moment to realize he wasn’t joking.

“From _Hydra?”_

“Yes,” Clint replied, shifting his gaze from Steve to Tony. “We were in the middle of Russia, on a cliff. I had just turned nineteen and something in me just… refused to continue on like this. I knew I could fool almost all of them; Nat wouldn’t allow herself to miss me; James would forget about the mission and most likely me after the next few wipes. I cut myself open, bled on the snow, and broke all my weapons. The fight, which was down below, was chaotic enough that it was completely plausible that one of the target’s men were able to reach me. I knew they’d believe it, or at least force themselves to believe it, because the other option was that I had chosen to escape, and that would have been too big a failure on their part. The only one that knew was Trickshot.”

Clint was spot on in his assessment, too. Natasha had vehemently refused to feel any way about Clint ‘dying’, though she knew somewhere deep inside her, where all of her humanity had been buried during those years, that he was still alive. When she finally crossed paths again with Clint, him as a Shield agent and her his target, she was only surprised he didn’t shoot her on the spot.

  
By this point, everyone was deep in thought. This was a lot to process, and Natasha was glad they were giving it the consideration it deserved before speaking. They could have easily attacked Clint with questions, and she does appreciate their restraint, though she’s aware Clint would prefer to just get it over with.

She’s not at all surprised when Bruce is the one to speak up first.

“Why, in that case, did you keep your past a secret for Shield?”

Clint sighed. “I was scared. I thought they’d kill me, I honestly did. That’s what Hydra would have done. That’s what they wanted to do to Nat, before I convinced them to let me bring her in.” Clint forced himself to make eye contact with each one of them before continuing. “I am not a Hydra agent anymore. I have no love for them. I kept this secret, first because I feared for my life, and then because I was too content to live my life as it was to change anything by setting the record straight. If you don’t trust me anymore, fine. If you can’t work with me anymore, I can handle that. Just please… Please know that the only lie I’ve told you is this one. Everything you’ve known about me throughout our entire relationship has been genuine. I’m sorry to have kept this from you.” With that, Clint stood, gave a short nod to the group, and began to make his way towards the elevator.

The room was, understandable, in a state of shock. This was a lot to take, Natasha knew.  She also knew that she was an outsider in their situation, and that her presence would inhibit the conversations they needed to have. So she stood, gave them all a hard look, and followed Clint out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translation:   
> 1\. How much are you planning on telling them?  
> 2\. Everything I can.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about how long this has taken to update, but I'm on summer break now so hopefully I'll be able to get on a much more regular posting schedule. Either way, enjoy!

Natasha and Clint rode the elevator down to the ground floor of the Avengers tower, walked a block in silence, and ducked into a random alleyway before Clint allowed himself to decompress. He leaned his full weight against the grime of the brick wall to his left and closed his eyes, trusting Natasha to have his back. He felt both drained and high on adrenaline, his fingers twitching minutely as his body fought to find equilibrium. He had never felt so vulnerable.

Natasha allowed him a full three minutes, if his internal clock could still be trusted, to fester in his conflicting emotions before placing her hand on his shoulder and anchoring him to the present. He opened his eyes and immediately connected with hers, seeing his own turmoil mirrored perfectly. It had taken him decades to be able to read Natasha so easily, and there are times when he questions whether he has actually developed such an acute understanding of her or if she just has become more willing to express herself to him.

Suddenly, he’s being pulled into a tight embrace, with Natasha carding her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck. He exhales on her neck and grips her back, just as tight. No matter what comes of this, he will always have her, he knows. “Thank you,” he whispers. There’s no need to elaborate.

She doesn’t respond immediately, but does squeeze lightly with the arm encircling his shoulders, before pulling back. “You still need to tell Phil,” she reminds him. “I will vouch for you, of course, but I cannot hold your hand through that conversation. You’ll need to do that alone.”

She’s right, of course she is; telling the team together was acceptable—they are all equals there, and it wasn’t questionable that Natasha be present for such an important team meeting. To have her by his side with Phil, however, would mean asking her to impose on a relationship where she didn’t belong. Not only that, but it would be something that Phil would be highly unappreciative of, Clint knew. Still, it didn’t make facing the reality of the situation any easier. Losing the team’s trust would be tragic and painful, but losing Phil’s…

Clint shuddered. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Phil was a reasonable man, and more than that he loved Clint. As long as he heard it from Clint first, there was a likely chance they would be able to work through the deceit with minimal damage.

“I’ll tell Phil tonight,” he promises her. It was only around four in the afternoon; Clint had at least four hours before he needed to face Phil, and suddenly he didn’t feel like spending them wallowing in a dirty alley. He pulled all the way out of her arms, and stood tall.

Natasha, perceptive as always, straightened up as he did and began to walk. Somehow, she’d ended up two steps ahead of him in his own plan. Rushing slightly to catch up to her, he matched her pace before asking where they were headed.

Natasha replied without breaking stride. “I want to see James, and I think you two should talk before… Before Shield decides they _get_ to decide if you’re allowed to see him again.”

 

* * *

 

 

The team sat in contemplative silence for a while after Clint and Natasha left. Steve knew they were all trying to process the new information in their own way, much like he was. As team captain, he was initially and immediately wary once he realized the level of pretense that has persisted between Clint and the team. To exist for so long under false terms is dangerous and unsettling when the lives of his team are at stake. All things considered, his first action should be to contact Shield and remove Barton from the team, at least for the time being.

On the other hand, though… it was Clint. Even through the shock of the revelation and the shift in perception that followed, it was still the Clint they all knew and loved. He never stopped being Clint through the entire conversation. All things considered, Steve realized he didn’t trust himself to make this decision for the team by himself, captain or not.

Looking up, he addressed them as a whole: “That… was a shock, I know. And to be honest guys, I’m kind of at a loss on what to do. I need to know how you’re all truly feeling before I make a move here.”

Unsurprisingly, Tony is the first to speak up. What is surprising, though, is the lack of gusto that comes with the words; it’s clear the proceedings have struck an honest cord in the man. He simply sounds exhausted. “I struggle to argue that any man should be allowed to remain on the team after revealing that he’s lied to us for years about the origin of his skills; lies that have risked the safety of us all, not in the least because he is directly connected to our most prominent enemy—”

“But it’s Clint,” Bruce interjects, his mouth pulled down in a frown. “He’s still the same man who’s been living and fighting next to us all these years. Just because we didn’t know about his past doesn’t mean it wasn’t a part of him, and us knowing now isn’t going to change who he is, either,” Bruce turned his head, his eyes scanning from Tony over to Steve and Thor, next to him. “Are we honestly going to blame him for wanting to run away from a childhood at nightmarish as his?”

Thor began to nod, proclaiming “I believe Clint’s time with us has been an honest one, apart from this which he revealed to us today. It took much courage for him to reveal his past to us. And though I am not very knowledgeable on our Hydra foes, does not the Lady Natasha come from the same background? This we have known from the beginning, and have welcomed her no less into our team.  I believe we should extend the same trust and companionship to Clint as we always have.” Bruce made a soft noise of affirmation, and Steve couldn’t help but agree with the two. Clint was family, and the skeletons in his closet—skeletons which have done more damage to Clint than anyone else on the team—don’t change that. While the three of them are centering themselves into a calmer headspace in concordance to their mutual conclusions, Tony seems to become only more agitated by his thoughts.

“But Natasha hasn’t lied to us! She was honest from the start about her past, and Shield had known about her for years before we came along. For all we know, Clint’s entire existence with us has been a lie—we all have seen firsthand how good Hydra agents are at embodying someone else. How do we know—” Tony’s rant, which had been building in momentum and volume, was cut off by Steve standing up. Though he always values his teammate’s thoughts, especially Tony’s, Steve has a hunch that most of this is coming from Tony’s own trust issues, not the problem at hand. It’s easy to fear dishonesty when you’ve been slapped in the face by it as often as Tony has, but Steve, with the help of Thor and Bruce’s input, genuinely believes that Clint isn’t coming from a malicious place. He’s not dangerous, not to them.

“Tony,” he begins, “I understand what you’re saying, I do. But I really think that Clint doesn’t mean us any harm.” Steve closes the distance between them, placing one of his hands around Tony’s bicep in a gesture he sincerely hopes is comforting. “Believe what you will about him, but you know how much Natasha loves us. If Clint’s past made him a threat to us, she wouldn’t have allowed him to keep it a secret from us, you know that.” Tony jerks around in a fairly transparent effort to retreat from Steve’s touch. However, he nods hesitantly, and while Steve knows that they’ll no doubt continue this discussion in private, for now he’s conceding. “For now, we’re going to stick this one out. Clint is a part of this team, and his history doesn’t change that. I don’t doubt that if Coulson doesn’t know by now, he will very soon, so any further decision will be on him, as our handler.” Both Bruce and Thor seem satisfied with this conclusion. The former smiles warmly before making his retreat to the elevator; this day has been a trying one for them all, but Steve would bet that Bruce had an even harder time than the rest of them—the other guy loves Clint almost as much as Phil does, and Bruce no doubt did not enjoy his bodily struggle with his other half.

Thor appeared in front of Tony and Steve, slapping them both on the back as is his custom. His usually contagious grin was subdued now, though still present. “I am glad to have reached such a peace with this new information so quickly, brothers. And Captain, you have been a courageous leader today.” Dipping his head, Thor sighed; when he looked back up, his grin was more of a grimace. “Unfortunately, I fear this is not the end of our friend’s troubles in this matter. It troubles me to leave at such a trying time, but my people have need of me. I will try to return with haste, though.”

“Thank you Thor. We understand your duty to your people; do not feel that you are neglecting us by doing your duties to them. We will see you soon, I’m sure.” Steve returned Thor’s back-slap-of-affection.

“See ya, Thunder Pants.” Steve huffed out a laugh, relishing, for once, in Tony’s ability to joke in serious times. He can’t be that upset if he’s making his usual friendly jabs at their teammate.

Thor nods to them both one last time, his grin bigger now, before walking right out onto the patio and being swept up into the sky. Steve turns back to Tony, ready to laugh with him about Thor’s unusual approach to transportation. The joke dies in his throat when he sees the look on the man’s face. Tony is clearly still distressed.

“We’re not done discussing what just happened, Captain.”   


End file.
